The Cloud

My dad, Mister Internet Security Analyst, talks about the Internet like it's a breeding ground for criminals, instead of a place to watch smoky-eye makeup tutorials. He's always saying things like, "You can't trust anyone or anything on the Internet," and, "Spywhere is everywhere."
Another of his favorites: "Once you send something, it's always there. In the cloud."
When he says "the cloud" like that, I imagine I can look up and see all my silly photos and homework assignments and texts with Mason about how boring history class is, hovering in the air above our heads, a flurry of words and images blocking out the sun.
I guess the video Jimi sent would be up there, too.
When I first got the attachment to his text, I couldn't figure out how to play it.
I asked Mason, who said I needed to download an app.
Now, I have to ask my dad for the iTunes password. Thank you, family plan.
I call to him through the bathroom door. "Dad?"
"What's up,  Jess?" Magazine pages rustle.
I rush my words out in one breath. "Dad, Ms. Ronson told me to download a metronome app so I can work on the pacing for Pachelbel's Canon before the school recital next month so I need the iTunes password please."
A pause.  More rustling. I twist my fingers into knots that mimic the ones in my stomach. Then, a sigh and, "The password is the number four, the word safety, then an underscore, then the word first. All lowercase. Got that?"
"Got it." 4safety_first. Classic Dad.
Before I can escape, he adds, "Just the app your teacher wants, right, Jess? Remember, the Internet is a dangerous place."
"Of course," I lie. "Thanks!"
I run down the carpeted hallway to my room, trying to type the password into my phone as I go. I have to enter it three times before I finally get it right.
Mason is sitting cross-legged on my bed, Thornton purring in their lap. They hold their hand out.
I hand them my phone, and tug Thornton toward me. He protests, of course, because even though Thornton's my cat, Mason is his favorite human. Plus, he doesn't like to be bossed. I know this, but I still try to clutch him tightly against my chest, hoping today will be the day that my pet decides to comfort me.
He immediately wriggles out of my arms and bounds, in his gracefully offended feline way, out of the room. I hug my knees close, instead, and squeeze my eyes shut.
It's been nineteen and a half hours since I received Jimi's text. Nineteen and a half hours since I tried and failed to open the video attachment. Nineteen and a half hours since Mason said they'd be over in the morning to help.
Which makes roughly nineteen hours, twenty-nine minutes, and fifty-nine seconds of agony.
Jimi and I have been flirting for months over the lab table, where we'd been assigned partners due to the alphabetical closeness of our first initials. I'm usually not good at flirting, but with Jimi it came easy. He teased me about being a music nerd, but then he said, "You've got more creativity than all these girls put together."
I wrote that line in my journal.
I teased him about being a jock, but the truth is I thought it was cool. Not just that he obviously looks amazing from all the working out, but also that he's so focused. He wants to make something of himself. He's not one of those dumb guys who only wants to get drunk every weekend.
Still, even with all of the flirting, Jimi and I never spent time together outside of lab. I didn't even know that he had my number until I got his text on my way home from school yesterday. Hey, Jess. This is Jimi. I recorded this video for you. You should watch it when you're alone.
I was in the car with my dad. We were driving down streets I'd driven down a million times in my life. But, in that moment, everything stopped, like a movie paused. The world dimmed, my gaze stuck on your text.
Watch it when you're alone.
At home, I ignored Dad's offer to make me a snack, and went straight to my room.
I'm no good with technology, which is all kinds of backwards since Dad's life is computers. The desk in his home office has three huge screens so that he can see all his open programs, and he has so many laptops and other computers stashed around that I couldn't begin to count them all. Even though Dad's work is all about technology, it's specifically all about the many, many ways technology can go wrong. A person can't spend that much time thinking about potential disaster without letting some of that fear leak into their actual life. So, there's a striking imbalance of technology in our family. While my dad has an infinite number of "machines," as he calls them, I begged for this second-hand, outdated smart phone for a year before I got it, and then only because I convinced Dad that more things could go wrong due to not having a phone than having one.
Mason, on the other hand, is an expert with computers. They intuitively understand how technology works. They even built an app that automatically scans any document or communication for consistent pronoun usage and makes recommendations for corrections. We haven't even applied to colleges, yet, but Mason already knows there's a scholarship spot at MIT with their name on it.
So you can see why they were my first phone call to help with the video.
Actually, Mason is my first phone call for everything. Has been since first grade, when we both faked stomachaches to get out of playing girls vs boys in dodgeball.
"The boys are too rough," I said. "I'm scared."
"I guess," Mason said. "But I'd still rather play on the boys' team, if Ms. Conroy would ever let me."
The class played dodgeball all week while, on the sidelines, Mason and I bonded and became the best of friends.
Now, with a few quick taps, Mason selects the app and starts downloading it. They give a bright grin, then hold up the screen so I can watch the status bar creep along. "With this top-of-the-line hardware you've got, it should only take a few weeks to install."
I groan and bury my face.
Mason laughs. "Have I mentioned how glad I am that I'm not straight?"
"About a thousand times," I say. I turn to lean my cheek on my knees to look at their face. "But, explain it again. Straight people are the only ones who get nervous about a crush? Cuz I seem to remember you were super nervous about Kerri. Like, for years."
"Heck, yes, I was nervous! But Kerri and I were also friends—"
"Friends with secret crushes," I add. I always add this.
Morgan ignores me, like usual. "We were friends getting to know and trust each other. This, though? This is weird. You don't even know this guy, this... Jimi person. You have no idea what might be on this video!" They hold up the phone and waggle it in my direction, which makes me accidentally look at the screen and see that the app has now launched.
I squeal and point. There it is. A still shot of Jimi's face, looking cute as ever. Black hair, falling dashingly over one eye. Dimples for days.
Mason rolls their eyes. "Okay. You know what to do."
I do know. All I have to do is tap that triangle over the picture and the video will play.
The problem is, I can't do it.
Mason sighs. "Talk to me."
"I don't know, I'm scared. You're right, I have no idea what this video might be."
"Look, I'm sorry I said that. You'll never know what's on it unless you press play. What are you gonna do, never watch it? Never know?"
"Of course not!"
"Cuz I can put it away now..." Mason gets up off the bed and walk across the room toward my desk.
"No!"
They turn around, arms crossed. "It's not gonna get easier the longer you sweat it."
They're right. I nod, and Mason extends the phone toward me again. I hold my finger over the play symbol.
Then, a knock on my door makes me snatch my hand back.
"Honey?" Dad pokes his head in. Mason drops the phone to their side, and I sit up straight.
"Just collecting the laundry," Dad says. He pushes the door open and comes inside, carrying a plastic laundry basket. "Hey, Mason. How're you doing?"
"Fine, Mr. Valeri. How about you?"
Dad pulls my hamper from the closet and adds my dirty clothes to the ones in the basket. "Good, good. Did you all get that metronome app installed? Need any help?"
"No, Dad. We've got it under control. Please, if you don't mind..." I raise my eyebrows and gesture toward the door.
"Fine, fine. I can see when I'm not wanted." He pauses at the door. "Just don't come crying to me when you smell the banana bread I'm making." He cracks a smile, then uses his foot to pull the door shut behind him.
"Mmmmm, banana bread," says Mason.
"Stay focused."
"Hey, you're the one who's chickening out."
"I'm not chickening out." But he's right; I'm chickening out.
I sit up straight and take deep breaths. Count of three in, count of five out. Three in, five out.
"Jess, you play piano in front of hundreds of people at our school rallies. You can't play this video?"
"It's just... But there's no privacy here."
I look around the room.
"Come with me." I grab Mason's hand and pull them to the closet. "Let's go in here."
"Good lord, Jess."  But they follow me in.
I push the dresses and jackets hanging from the rod toward one side. The floor of my closet is just big enough for the two of us to sit cross-legged with our sides snug against each other. I close the door, shutting out all the light except the sliver that leaks in under the door frame.
And, of course, the glowing phone screen.
"Okay, Jess. You good now? We doing this?"
Jimi's face - dimples and all - grins up at me from the phone. I can't help smiling back, even though of course I know he can't see me. Whatever's on the video, I figure it's gonna be sweet. Like him.
Maybe even better than sweet. After all, homecoming was coming up.
"Hey,"  Mason says. With some difficulty in the tight space, they lift one hip and dig around in a pocket. They hold out a pair of earbuds. "Want to use these?"
I take them and put them in my ears, plug the cord into the phone.
I push play.
Suddenly, Jimi's face is animated. Laughing. "Hey, Jess. I bet you're wondering why I'm making you this video." The camera is unsteady in his hand. It captures bits of his face and what seems to be the school locker room. Other voices shout and talk in the background.
"So, I'm really glad we're lab partners, cuz we have, like, a lot of fun. Don't we?" Jimi laughs. His laugh is one of the first things I noticed about him. It's a deep laugh, deeper than his voice. And he shakes his head while he laughs, like he's all no, this is too unbelievably funny. Except there was that one time when I made him laugh really hard and he threw his head back and opened his mouth and let out a peal of laughter so loud Mr. Simmons threatened to send us to the office.
I wrote about that in my journal, too.
The video continued. "Yeah, like, the way we're always chatting and laughing. It's really nice. And the way you look at me... That's nice, too."
My breathing speeds up at that part. I look at Mason. They can't hear what Jimi is saying. They raise their eyebrows. I nod back to tell him everything's good.
And I think it is. I think this warmth spreading from my cheeks down my neck and chest means something wonderful is about to happen. That's why what I see next takes me by surprise, like cold water rushing out of the shower head when someone flushes the toilet.
Jimi says, "So, the way you look at me." Now the camera stops shaking. Maybe Jimi sat down on a bench. There are lockers behind his head.
"The way you look at me, with your eyes all sparkly, well it makes me feel a certain way, Jess. You know. I think you feel it, too. I know you do. I'm gonna give you a little gift, girl. And I think you're gonna like this."
The camera pans down, showing Jimi's chest. He's not wearing a shirt, and his muscled shoulders hunch forward as he leans close to the phone. He's close enough that I can see a few hairs around his nipples and, then, as the camera pans lower, his belly button.
I've seen boys' chests and stomachs before. Of course. Many times, at the pool and at the beach. This is different. Jimi wasn't simply wearing a bathing suit, he was showing me his chest. On purpose.
Part of me wants to stop the video. But, even though I feel like I've swallowed a pile of rocks, I have to watch.
I glance at Mason. They grimace and shrug.
Now Jimi is pointing the camera below his belly button, at his lap which is covered with only a small white athletics department towel. "Yup," he says, "you're gonna wanna unwrap this gift." Then, "Let me help you with that."
And, in one swift motion, he grabs a corner of the towel and swipes it away.
I drop the phone. As it hits the floor, the earbuds come unplugged, and the sound of boys laughing and yelling fills my tiny closet. I recoil, but there's nowhere to go, and I can't look away from the bright screen.
I know what I'm seeing, but my brain wants to find some other explanation, like when a picture looks like a distant planet, and then the caption reveals that it's nothing more exotic than an orange peel, photographed at the closest range.
This was no orange peel.
I can still hear Jimi's familiar, husky voice I thought was so cute. "Oh yeah, oh yeah," he says, with each thrust of his groin. Some of his teammates are laughing.
Then, another voice I recognize - Coach Bradford - saying, "What's going on in here, young men?"
Abruptly, the video ends.
Everything goes silent. The screen shows a still image again, the last one from the video, comically different compared to the wholesome, dimpled face that showed up before. If I wasn't already so breathless I'd be laughing.
"Oh my god," I say. I look up at Mason, then back down at the phone. "Oh my god, oh my god."
I crawl out of the closet and get to my feet, knees shaking. Mason comes out behind me, holding the phone. Their eyes are soft with concern, seeking mine even though all I want to do is escape.
"Hey, hey," they say. "Jess, you okay?"
I want to respond, but my throat is closed like a straw that's been squished flat. I open and close my mouth, trying to get some air. My stomach aches.
Finally I manage, "Can... can you delete it?"
Mason picks up the phone and clicks around.
"Okay," they say. "It's gone."
But it's not. I close my eyes, and still see him.
"Also," Mason adds, "just so you know, Jimi gets an alert that you've watched it."
For some reason, this makes me want to cry. I imagine him at home, getting the notification. Calling his friends, laughing about it.
Maybe he thought it was cute. Maybe he thought I'd like it.
Was I supposed to like it?
I sit on the edge of my bed, muscles feeling weak. Mason sits down next to me, and nudges my knee with theirs. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
I shake my head.
"That guy," they say. Mason's hand closes into a tight fist around my phone that he's still holding. I glance at his face, and his expression is harder than I've ever seen it before. "That guy had no right. He showed you exactly who is, and that person is not worth your time or your energy."
The words ring in my ears like truth, but I'm not ready. I shrug. "Mason, I think I need to be alone."
They sigh, get up, and walk over to the door. Then, they turn back. "What are you gonna do, Jess?"
"Do?"
"Yeah, are you gonna do something? Say something to this jerk? I mean, you'll see him in class on Monday, right?"
I've forgotten about school. God, I can't imagine walking into Biology class and seeing Jimi sitting at our lab table. He'll look up at me, and I'll...
I have no idea what I'll do.
"I don't think I'm going to school on Monday," I say to Mason.
"Well, Tuesday, then," they insist.
"Mason, I don't want to think about going back to school, ever! I don't know what I'm supposed to do about this!"
They lean over so their eyes are level with mine. "Jess, this guy did a really crappy thing."
I nod. I know Mason's right. But the thought of facing Jimi, of doing anything about this, makes me cheeks burn like I've been standing too close to a fire.
Mason holds the phone out to me. "Call if you need me."
I take it and nod.
Once Mason leaves, I look down at the slim black rectangle. I turn it over in my hand, as if there might be some sign, some residue, of that video. I know Mason deleted it, but I still power the phone all the way off, and hide it in the back of my desk drawer.
I don't use the phone - or even turn it on - for the rest of the weekend. Instead, I organize my homework, and work through it slowly and steadily, the whole time doing whatever I can to keep my brain focused on my assignments so that I don't think about Jimi or his video.
When our home phone rings on Sunday afternoon, Dad goes to answer it. "Honey?" he says. "It's Mason. He says he's been trying to reach you. Apparently, your phone is off."
I don't look up from my computer, where I've been working on an English assignment and watching emails and texts from Mason accumulate. It's not that I'm avoiding them. I simply don't know what to say.
"Dad, could you please tell them that I'm busy? I'll see them in school tomorrow."
Dad does this, then comes back into the room. After a moment, he asks, "Honey, is everything okay? Should I be worried?"
I meet his gaze. He's got a half-eaten bowl of pasta in one hand and, in the other, the remote pointing at the TV on which his favorite show Today in Tech is paused.
I smile. "Just busy with schoolwork, Dad."
"Oh." He considers me closely. "Good for you. I'm proud of you for staying focused." He turns back to his show and his dinner.
I click on Mason's texts. They are increasingly worried, asking how I'm doing. I quickly type back: I'm fine. Really. Just thinking.
They text back right away: Read my email.
The subject line is, "Food for your thought." I read it. Then, I close my laptop and putter around my room, not doing anything but thinking about what they said. When I finally get into bed, I lie awake most of the night. I'm scared, but there's something else, too. A new feeling.
The punched, breathless feeling I've been carrying around all weekend slowly drains away. Instead, I find myself curling my fists, squeezing them tight, as if I'm ready to dole out some punches myself.
When my alarm goes off, I get out of bed and go to the bathroom. My reflection above the sink doesn't look so good. Red, puffy eyes. Skin raw from all the tossing and turning.  I look serious. Scary, even. I've never seen such an expression on my face, never seen my jaw set quite so fiercely.
This is a face I want to show to Jimi. To everybody. It's a fighter's face.
Mason is waiting for me at my locker. When they see me, they raise an eyebrow. "Jess, wow, you look..."
I stop, hands on hips.
Mason's expression changes to one of understanding. "Oh, yeah. You're perfect."
I nod. They follow me to my locker and ask, "So, did you read my email?"
"I did."
"And?"
I look at my friend. "Let me think about it? I've got Bio first period. I think I'll know what to do after I see him."
"You want me to walk you?"
Mason's quiet presence as we walk to class makes me realize something: Having a good friend is not nothing. In fact, someone by my side when my knees are made of jelly, and I'm about to encounter someone who makes me feel about as big as a flea on a dog's back... that's everything. Not everyone has that.
I wonder if Jimi does. Because, if I go through with Mason's plan, he's gonna need it.
When I walk into the lab, Jimi perched on the edge of his stool, hair still wet around the ears. He's drumming his fingers on the table, like he's eagerly awaiting something very fun. When he looks up and see me, his eyes light up. His face breaks into a toothy grin. And I realize that the fun thing he is waiting for is me.
I'm a diversion for him. Or, at least, my discomfort is.
Decision made.
I take a seat across from him. I can feel him looking at me, but I look straight ahead, waiting for class to start. I shake my long hair back so he can see my face. My raw, fierce face.
All through Mr. Simmons' lecture, I take notes. Jimi stretches his neck to get a good view of my work. But, unlike the other days, when I silently pushed my notebook between us so he could read it, today I keep my notebook away from his peering eyes.
Finally, as Mr. Simmons' dismisses us to second period class, Jimi grabs my elbow. Mouth slightly open, eyes vacant, he looks confused. No, strike that. He looks dumb.
"So, Jess, did you... did you have a good weekend?" He tries to assume that cool guy look that I used to think he did so well.
"I did. Really, really good."
I turn and walk away while he's still searching for a snappy response.
Mason comes over after school that day. And every day that week, so we can work on our project. It's shockingly easy to retrieve the video they'd deleted off my phone. Apparently, it had been in the cloud the whole time. Just like Dad always says, "We have to be careful what we put on the Internet. Those things can stay around forever."
I bet Jimi will be more careful after this.
When Friday comes around, everyone at school is talking a little louder than usual, discussing the upcoming football game and, even more importantly, the dance afterwards. Usually Fridays are the nights that Mason and Kerry and I snuggle up under some blankets, eat cookie dough ice cream, and watch The Great British Baking Show. But tonight we have something else to do first.
After kick-off, when the school hallways are deserted, Mason takes me into the basement, to the A/V room. It's filled with metal desks and shelving units like the set of some old CIA movie. And it's freezing in there.
"Why couldn't we do this at my house?" I ask. "I thought you could, like, hack in from a remote location?"
Mason flips on a bunch of lights. "Well, your old laptop isn't exactly a dream setup for a 'hacker' like me," they say. They cross the room to plug in a space heater, then flip the switch on a computer the size of a mini-fridge. They go on, "I'd worry about using your dad's computer because I bet he has all kinds of password-protected security measures." Then, they give the fridge computer an affectionate pat. "This beast looks ancient but, since it's intended for editing large files, there's lots of power under the hood."
"'Beast?' 'Under the hood?' Who are you and what have you done with my nerdy friend?"
Mason rolls their eyes, sits at the desk, and starts typing. "Here, we're already hooked into the school network. Whoever's working the scoreboard won't be able to stop my override until it's too late."
I step closer to watch over their shoulder, but I don't ask any more questions. Mason doesn't like to be disturbed while working.
After a few minutes of typing, they turn to me. "All set. Once we run this code, the video will be queued up to play on the Jumbotron at halftime." They peer close at me. "You good with this?"
All day, all week, I thought I was good with this. No hesitations. Now, I'm not so sure. I think of Jimi in his football gear, thinking of nothing but how to score another touchdown, how to win, and my stomach starts to feel queasy. Maybe his parents are in the bleachers, maybe even his grandparents. Maybe he wants to make them proud. And maybe he's occasionally thinking about the suit hanging in his locker for after, when he'll go to the formal with a cheerleader named Darcy.
Whatever else he's thinking about, he's for sure not thinking of me.
Going through with this plan could ruin a lot of things for him. It's on the tip of my tongue to tell Mason to forget the whole thing.
But, then, I realize that if his parents, his grandparents, his teachers are watching. If Darcy is watching, or any of the other girls Jimi might decide to flirt with or take out on a date, then they'll know. They can treat him accordingly. Not like a perfect golden boy of the field. And not like a monster, either. But like someone who screwed up. Someone who needs to learn to be more careful, for himself and other people.
Because of Jimi, I'm going to be more careful. For the rest of my life. I know that. Why shouldn't he be?
The queasy feeling fades away, and I feel calm, like I do right before I go onstage to sit at the piano. Like I'm ready. Like I know what exactly what part I have to play.
I tell Mason, "I'm good." And then, "Can I push play?"
And I do, with no hesitation.
Out on the field, there's a football game going on. People are cheering, hoping, smiling. Maybe they're falling in love or feeling bummed out but trying to make the best of things. None of them know what's going to happen at half-time. Things are going to change. Especially for Jimi.
Down in the school basement, Mason powers everything down in reverse order - computer, heater, lights. We're going to head home. We don't have to see how this ends.
Mason looks at me sideways as they hold the door for me. "Are you sure you're totally straight?"
I chuckle. "Why do you ask?"
They lock the door and offer me the crook of their arm. "That was just a very queer thing to do. I liked it."
I think about this, then I say, "Actually, it was a very Jess thing to do."
We leave school by the back door and cut across the parking lot towards my house. Mason regards me with a serious expression before letting a wide grin spread across their face. "Well, my friend," they say, "I like that, too. I like that very much."